


The Bucharest Pack

by HigherMagic



Category: Blood and Chocolate (2007), Charlie Countryman (2013), Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Fist Fights, Jealousy, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pack Leader Nigel, Possessive Behavior, Violence, Werewolf Nigel, Werewolves, physical assault
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-29 01:16:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18216230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: Aiden gets a little too friendly with Gabi one night in Nigel's bar, and Nigel has to put him in his place. Unfortunately for him, Aiden isn't easily dissuaded - if Nigel wants a fight, he's going to learn that Aiden's not the kind of guy to just roll over and take it.





	The Bucharest Pack

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trashbambi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashbambi/gifts).



> So I'm writing this fic for my friend Ollie, who has graciously given me a fantastic outline to work from. So! I will tell you this does turn into very happy and loving Aiden/Nigel, even if they don't get off to a great start (but really, it's /Nigel/ and it's not like Aiden's all sunshine either even though I love them both). I wanted to get it started and set up a placeholder to come back to when I write new chapters.

Nigel shifts his weight. A small flicker of his fingers is all the little wolf needs, for his attention to be caught, his eyes flashing and immediately backing away from the redhead at the bar. Nigel's lips twitch in a false smile as he watches the wolf leave Gabi alone, showing his neck and ducking into the crowd of dancers to try and find something else to get his dick wet in.

A smile more genuine crosses his face, when Gabi turns and glares at him, one brow arched. Ah, Gabi – beautiful, sexy as fuck, _gorgeous_ Gabi, with the musical skill of an angel and an ass that could drag any man, human or wolf, into trouble.

Though Nigel has never had an issue getting into trouble.

Beside him, his lieutenant is a stern smudge of black, both in outfit and demeanor. "Idiot," he mutters in Romanian, and Nigel grins, his eyes still on Gabi as she turns away with a huff. She's not a wolf, doesn't know how to behave like one, doesn't understand the urge to show neck and whine when Nigel's upper lip lifts, doesn't know how sensitive Nigel is to her scent, her sweat, the cling of mascara and powder on her face.

In his enthrallment by her, Nigel doesn't notice the pup until he has taken up the empty stool beside Gabi. From where Nigel is, he can see a youthful face, a clean-shaven, strong jaw, pink lips parted to show a wide smile. Sharp canines, a fluffy mess of curls just waiting for someone to put their fist in it – shoulders, slim but muscled, in the way young men are when they don't eat much but use their arms a lot. Skinny waist, skinny hips. Breakable.

He breathes in.

 _Human_.

That must be why he is still there, and hasn't reacted to Nigel's impatient snarl. Only wolves can hear it, and some do, indeed, skitter away from their leader, melting to the shadows so they don't bear a mark from his teeth, but the little pup is still there at the bar, leaning against it a little too angled to be completely sober.

Gabi's shoulders tense, and the weak little shit puts a hand on her wrist.

"Boss," Darko warns. "Don't do anything stupid."

Stupid? Stupid would be not defending his pack, his girl, and his title from a wayward bitch that thought he could play with the wolves. Any of his pack, if they saw this kid approach Gabi and live, might think Nigel was going soft, and he can't allow that.

He strides towards the pair, hears the bitch – American, from the accent – slur; "Just one drink, you'll let me buy you one drink, won't you?" Gabi sees Nigel first, and she stiffens, looking at him with those pretty, wide eyes.

"Nigel," she says, the same warning way Darko did, as Nigel pushes past her and gets up in the pup's space. This close, Nigel can smell him too – a strangely soft thing; paper and ink and the aftertaste of vodka on his breath. He blinks up at Nigel, brow creasing. "Leave him alone, he's harmless."

The 'harmless' fucker blinks at him again, and then spreads his lips wide in a smile. Nigel's fingers flex by his sides, he lifts his lip to show his teeth, and the kid merely grins wider in answer.

"You have two seconds to turn around and get the fuck outta here," Nigel says.

That statement is met with another blink, a crinkle of his nose like he's smelled something bad, and a roll of his eyes – pretty, pale things, colored like a green beer bottle underwater. Even in the darkness of the club, they are shining. "Got the same right to be here as you do," he replies, slurring, petulant – just like an American, just like a _child_.

Nigel snarls, and the nearby wolves notice, clearing the space immediately. A threat and change in room temperature the pup clearly doesn't notice, because he pushes himself to his feet and taps his palm in a condescending pat against Nigel's chest.

"Why don't you clear out, old man?" he says, and he smiles off-kilter, with dimples, with fangs. "Unless the lady here wants to fuck someone old enough to be her daddy, you're clearly not wanted here, _Nigel_."

Oh, that is _it_. Nigel's fist curls and he slams his knuckles against the kid's jaw, sending him stumbling back, clutching his face. Nigel doesn't let him recover – first rule of fighting with wolves; find an advantage and press it. Nigel is bigger, stronger, and the full moon is only a week away.

The kid hisses at him, teeth bloodied, and grabs a nearby beer bottle, flinging it at Nigel's face, before he turns tail and runs. Nigel dodges the bottle, listens to it break in a wet shatter of glass, and snarls.

"He's mine!" he tells the club at large, knowing the implicit order not to follow will be obeyed. Without a second look back, he lifts his knuckles to his nose, breathing in the scent of the kid's blood. Grins, when he catches it, and knows he will be able to follow. Then, he is in pursuit.

 

 

The kid doesn't make it far – Nigel finds him in the next block, staggering and bracing himself against a harsh brick wall, clutching his face and groaning in pain. Nigel snarls, because he _wants_ this fucking kid to know, exactly, who's about to beat the shit out of him, and smiles when he's met, once again, with a flash of those bright eyes.

He expects fear, maybe even anger, as most people look at him when he's about to kill them. But instead, he is surprised when he sees an expression of almost resigned determination, and the kid straightens, pushes himself from the wall, and steps into one of the halos of light lining the alley. Lit from above, his face is a mess of sharp shadows, blood beading at the corner of his mouth and etched into his teeth when he bares them, and snarls.

"Come on then," he says, and lowers himself into something resembling a fighting stance.

Nigel smiles, almost delighted by the pup's spirit, and advances of him. The kid is clearly still very drunk, bobbing and weaving in place in a way not quite deliberate, but he has steel in his eyes and his knuckles are white, clenched into fists.

When Nigel comes close enough, he lunges, swinging wildly, and Nigel ducks back, laughing, and kicks savagely at his calf, making him drop to one knee with a groan. But he is not down for long – he rises with another swing and even manages to catch Nigel on the arm, sending a dull bloom of heat through his shoulder.

Bless him. It will take much sharper claws than that to wound a wolf.

"What's your name, kid?" he asks, as the pup straightens and winces, putting weight on his bruised leg.

"Why do you care?" he spits, all puffed up and hissing. He reminds Nigel of a kitten, fluffy hair and all. Has all the threat of one, too.

Nigel huffs, rolling his eyes. "I like to know a guy's name before I beat the living shit out of him."

The little cat blinks at him, and hisses again, lunging forward. He ducks under Nigel's fist, catches it on his shoulder instead of his cheek where it was aimed, and gives a swift upward jab, attempting to wind Nigel but only meeting solid flesh. Nigel hears his fingers crack and he groans, but doesn't let the pain deter him, and claws at Nigel's neck. Even sinks his fingers in sharp enough to hurt, before Nigel snarls and kicks at his knee again, then his chest when it gives with a sharp _snap_ , sending the kid in an ungracious sprawl along the ground.

He looks up at Nigel, panting, and scrambles away. Ignores the off-set angle of his likely dislocated knee and gets to his feet again, and Nigel blinks, reluctantly impressed that he's still trying to put up a fight. It's been a long time since anyone, human or wolf, looked at Nigel with such open defiance.

He smiles.

The kid glares at him, takes another swing, stumbles and Nigel catches him around the neck, turns and slams him against the brick wall hard enough that his skull connects with another cracking sound, and the kid trembles, moaning in pain, clawing at his wrist and forearm and trying to kick at him with his good leg.

"Now, now," Nigel purrs, and squeezes his hand until the kid's face turns pink and he chokes on a breath. Contemplates, for a moment, just keeping him there, watching the fucker struggle until he passes out. But then the kid's eyes open, wild and dark, and he stares at him.

And spits a wad of bloody saliva on Nigel's cheek.

Nigel huffs, wiping it away with his free hand, and shakes him like he would a pup at their scruff. "Fucking bitch," he growls, and tightens his hand again, listens and watches as the kid chokes, going weak and limp, his nails turning more desperate along Nigel's wrist. "You think you can just waltz into my bar, make a move on _my_ woman, talk shit to me and then fucking run?"

"Fuck you," he rasps, weak now, and shows his teeth. There's something wild in his eyes, something that shines in the harsh light that paints him in stark relief, and Nigel tilts his head, frowning. It's not _impossible_ , he thinks, that this kid might be a wolf already, might be using suppressants and scent deadeners to hide his true nature – those teeth, the way he stares at Nigel, he could swear he was looking at a rival wolf.

"It's a free fucking country," the kid adds, and digs his nails into Nigel's wrist around the tendon, making him hiss and release, stepping back as the kid slumps, using the wall to brace himself up. But he is not still for long – he lunges, swinging wildly, and his fist connects with a dull thud against Nigel's arm.

Nigel snarls, and hits him, hard, fist to his face again and sending him to his fucked-up knee. The kid collapses with a moan, but, _still_ , tries to rise.

Nigel would be impressed if he wasn't so pissed off. "Stay _down_ , you little fucking -."

He freezes, as he hears the wail of a siren. Looks at the far end of the street and sees flashing red and blue lights. _Fuck_. He can't look weak, but he also cannot fucking get arrested for beating up a stupid little kitten that tried to play at being a wolf.

He leans down, grabs the kid's hair and yanks his head up. He receives a snarl for his trouble, bared teeth and sharp eyes under the fall of his sweat-damp hair.

"I've got your scent, you petulant little bitch. If I see you in my bar again, or around my girl again, I'll fuck you up so bad your own mother won't recognize your body," he says, low with promise, and receives, simply, another hiss. He throws the kid back with a snarl, and bolts down the other end of the street, jumping up to one of the fire escapes and climbing quickly, so he's out of sight by the time the police come.

He returns to the bar, wiping his face and working his sore arm, and grins when Darko greets him with a particularly sour look. Gabi is nowhere to be seen.

"Am I gonna have to bribe an M.E. sometime in the near future?" he asks as Nigel settles with a sigh. The kid's scent clings to his face, and he can still smell the blood on his knuckles even after he wipes his hands clean.

"Nah," he replies. "Sent the little bitch a message though. Got him running with his tail tucked. He won't bother us again."

"Bother _you_ again," Darko says.

Nigel grins at him, and lights a cigarette, sitting back with a sigh as he takes a puff. In front of them, the dance floor is alive with writhing bodies and sweat, and he sucks in another drag, blowing out a large cloud. Fights always make him want to fuck after – he slides his eyes amidst the crowd, but finds nothing to his liking.

He huffs.

"Gabi went home?"

Darko nods. "Put her in a cab myself," he replies. Nigel nods, pleased by his second's behavior. Darko has always been fiercely loyal in his own weird way – he'd make a good leader, if anything should happen to Nigel. Ambitious, cunning, but knows his fucking place at Nigel's side.

He wipes a hand over his mouth, frowning when he can still smell the fucking kid's scent clinging to his skin. It's annoying, how persistent it is.

He hums. "Find out who that little bitch was," he says, and Darko nods. "Keep an eye on him. He even breathes wrong I wanna know about it."

"You got it, boss," Darko says, and stands. He whistles, sharply, and from the crowd emerges two of his own wolves, whom he'd bitten shortly after joining Nigel's pack. They are both deferential to Nigel, but also treat Darko with respect, since he's the one who bit them, whose strain they carry.

Nigel sighs as the three disappear, nurses his untouched whiskey, and contents himself with the scent of blood on his fingers and the sight of one of the bartenders cleaning up the beer and broken glass the kid threw.

 

 

Aiden has had worse nights, but this one is probably top ten. He doesn’t understand nearly enough Romanian to follow the barking orders of the police and paramedics that find him in the street, and he's probably got a concussion or three, and he manages to point them to his injuries so they can patch him up before abandoning him in front of his apartment.

He grits his teeth, snarling to himself, head still swimming with alcohol as he forces his way up the stairs and into his apartment. It's the same as when he left it, full of scattered pieces of sketch paper, portfolios, reference books about Bucharest and the stunning tourist locations.

He's in the mood to look at none of it, and limps to his little kitchenette, starting a kettle of boiling water and pouring a packet of hot chocolate mix into a probably-dirty-but-fuck-it mug. When the water is ready, he pours it over, glumly eyeing the little white drops of dehydrated marshmallows, and limps to the bench seat in front of the window.

Outside, the lights of Bucharest glitter warmly, and he sighs, curling his good leg and wincing when the hot drink makes his fucked-up fingers and the inside of his cheek burn sharply. He cut it on his own teeth – probably the second punch in.

Fuck that guy. Fuck Nigel whoever-the-fuck club owner, where does he get off threatening Aiden like that, just for offering to buy a girl a drink? He hisses, downing another mouthful, and his eyes linger on the passing people on the street below him.

He frowns, seeing three shadows at the end of the street. None of them are Nigel, but they have his asshole bearing, standing like security guards waiting for their diplomat to emerge. They are all, also, he notices, staring right at his window.

Aiden frowns, and lifts his middle finger to them. The big one in the middle grins, and lifts his own back.

So, Nigel has goons watching him. Aiden huffs, and turns away, pulling the curtains closed. He's never reacted well to being cornered, or feeling hunted. If Nigel wants a fight, he'll get a Goddamn fight.

As soon as his knee is better. The paramedics had reset it, and he can wiggle his toes, though his leg aches sharply from the kicks when he does it. Still, it works, and he should be able to walk fine in a few days - good enough for round two.

He's definitely had worse.

He eyes his laptop, and with a grunt and a wince of pain, straightens, pulling it into his lap and setting his hot chocolate down in the place it occupied. He opens it. He remembers the name of the club, and if Nigel is, in fact, the owner or related to him, it shouldn't be hard to dig up some dirt on him.

He smiles to himself, even as the glacially-slow internet pulls up the Google page. He knows the kind of man Nigel is, knows they get off on power and fear and control, but they use that as their bite; all bark. That kind of man is often easy to coax into making stupid mistakes.

If he wants a fight, Aiden will fight, but he'll fight dirty. He'll see if Nigel has the balls to make good on his promise.


End file.
